


Voice

by SelanPike



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelanPike/pseuds/SelanPike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doxy never hesitates to point out your flaws, but even she thinks you could go on stage with her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she says, the two of you singing a powerful love song up on stage with all those people watching. Think of the money—she knows what you care about—think how many people would pay to see Heinous Doxy sing with Peccant Scofflaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice

            It isn’t that you think you’re a bad singer.

            Doxy never hesitates to point out your flaws, but even she thinks you could go on stage with her. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she says, the two of you singing a powerful love song up on stage with all those people watching. Think of the money—she knows what you care about—think how many people would pay to see Heinous Doxy sing with Peccant Scofflaw.

            And there’s the problem. You’re the second name on that list. It’s not even because of her ego, not completely. You’re an okay singer, but you’re not good enough to get top billing. You’re only worthy of supporting vocals, and Peccant Scofflaw doesn’t do anything if he’s not the star.

            You’re in her bed when she brings it up again. You’re leaning back into the silky sheets, still basking in the afterglow, and you reach over to the nightstand to grab a cigarette. She nuzzles the underside of your jaw, kissing you gently.

            “I really wish you’d quit,” she purrs.

            “Magic’ll kill me ’fore these do,” you tell her, your usual response whenever anyone criticizes your smoking. “’n th’ business’ll kill me ‘fore th’ magic does.”

             You light the cigarette with a purple flame. You know she digs the magic.

            “It’ll kill your voice, though,” she says into your neck.

            “’s fine,” you say. “Gravelly voices’re more threatenin’, ‘n th’ shower walls don’ mind none.”

            She chuckles. The two of you singing in the shower is almost routine these days. You’ve never had problems singing when no one else is around, after all. You don’t have to worry about being second best when no one besides her is around to witness it. 

            She puts an arm around you, kissing the side of your face. You grin, until you realize it’s a distraction to take the cigarette out of your mouth. She puts it out against the side of the nightstand, letting it fall onto the carpet. You whine at her, and she giggles and kisses you.

            “I like your voice the way it is,” she says.

            You hum. “Mn, I guess I do sound mighty fine.”

            She nods. “It’d be such a shame if you lost it before we ever got to sing together.”

            You laugh, rubbing her back. “We sing ev’ry damn day, darlin’.”

            “On stage, I mean.” She plays with your hair. “You’ll look so handsome under the spotlight.”

            “I don’ contest that assertion,” you say. You yawn. Her fingers in your hair relax you, and you want nothing more than to end this conversation and go to sleep. “But it ain’t happenin’.”

            “Why not?” she asks, flopping down so her chin is resting on your chest. She stops playing with your hair and stares up at you with big doe eyes.

            “It ain't my bag,” you tell her. You ruffle her hair. “That's all there is t' say on th' matter.”

            “What if I said I already put out the fliers?” she says.

            “Then I would say I hope you're makin' that up.”

            “Tomorrow night at nine,” she says, satisfaction in her voice.

            “What—what th' hell were y' thinkin'?!” You push her off of you and sit up, gripping the sheets to keep from hitting her. “I ain't said I was gonna do it, why th' hell would y'--”

            “It seemed like the only way to get you to agree,” she says, fixing her hair. “You don't want to lose face, do you?”

            Shit, you really don't. If she's put out the fliers then half the city knows already. Hell, they're probably already lining up to buy tickets. If you back out now you'll have to refund all of them, and maybe even comp them a free ticket for Doxy's next show. Not only would it make you look bad, you'd lose too much money on it.

            You throw the covers off and get out of bed. You light another cigarette, then set about getting dressed while you puff on it.

            “Where do you think you're going?” she asks.

            “Out,” you snap.

            “Are you doing the show or not?”

            You don't answer. She gets out of bed and slides up behind you, placing kisses on your still-bare shoulders.

            “I just want everyone to see how well we work together,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

            More like she wants everyone to see who wears the pants in your relationship. You know she's going to take the lead. She always does, and not just when you're singing. She'll shine so much brighter than you.

            She puts her arms around your chest, sucking on your neck. She knows just where you like it and you hate her for that.

            “Stop,” you say.

            “Do the show,” she pleads.

              You growl at her. She knows damn well you're going to. She's left you no choice in the matter. Her pretending anything to the contrary is just part of her act.

            She laughs softly, then whispers into your ear. “Maybe if you make me scream enough, I'll be too hoarse to perform.”

            It's a trap. You know it is. All the same, you whirl around, grab her and shove her into the bed. She lets out a shriek, which dissolves into giggles as you drop your pants and jump on her.

            It doesn't do you any good. If there's one thing she has control over, it's her voice, and by the time the sun comes up she is no more hoarse than she was the night before.

            You fall asleep on her chest. When the two of you are awake the next afternoon she makes you practice with her in the shower. When you leave, she makes you promise to pick her up at seven, so you have time to grab dinner beforehand.

            Until then, you spend the day chain smoking.


End file.
